Bad Scene and a Basement Show
by snailey
Summary: There were those who got involved, but sometimes, some people got too caught up, denying the effect it has on their life and those around them. Eyes fixated on the trembling of her brittle hands, Logan had a horrible feeling - Veronica was in denial.
1. Prologue

**Title: **Bad Scene and a Basement Show**  
Characters:** Logan, Veronica, Keith, and a few original characters.**  
Rating: **M**  
****Warnings:** Drug use, violence, and adult language.**  
Spoilers: **Nothing specific, but to be safe, lets just say the whole series. Futurefic. AU.**  
Disclaimer: **The only thing I own is the storyline and original characters. Rob Thomas, CW, and Warner Bros. own Veronica Mars.

* * *

Prologue:

**2013 – Sunday, May 26th - 10:12pm  
O'Malley's Pub**

It had been three years – three years since he had last seen her loading her bare essentials into the trunk of her Dad's car, clasping a one-way ticket to Virginia in her hand. No goodbyes. No contact. Not even an email. Of all the reunion scenarios he'd played out in his head, no situation close to the present reality had captured his imagination. After all that time, his first image of Veronica Mars was a possibly high, most likely drunk, bone-thin women slouched over a whiskey stained bar, her tiny frame blending in with the dark, dingy Brooklyn, New York, pub he'd just entered. _It always happens to the best and brightest._

Logan scanned the joint for someone who might be her likely acquaintance, friend, partner, or, dare-he-mention, boyfriend. When his search came up dry, his imagination moved into overdrive. What was a bright, young, intelligent FBI agent doing in a rundown Irish pub in Brooklyn? A pub fittingly named O'Malley's. As the only current occupant of the place, sans bartender, any possible undercover work she might be doing seemed pointless to Logan.

Had Veronica Mars finally sunken to the depths of depression? Had a dark, twisted turn of events created the downfall of a girl whose life's mission was to _not_ become her mother's daughter? His attempt to avoid the most obvious answer didn't last long.

A deep, throaty laugh pulled Logan's attention to the far left corner of the pub. His surveillance skills had failed him the instant he'd spotted his ex. In a horseshoe booth, poorly lit by the dim, green-tinted lights, three heavy-set men had made themselves at home, away from the eyes of any casual pub-crawlers.

Drawn back to his original prediction, Logan surmised she was probably undercover on a case. He could hear her now: _If you want answers, you have to get in close, g_ritted out with that closed-off expression she was so inclined to use when she was put in a position of moral ambiguity, or when her actions were questioned. Frequently, when he'd been the one to question her decisions, she'd simply brushed him off with the same look.

Logan needed to stop speculating; he needed to collect facts. Details. Information. Everything required to explain his current predicament and find out why Veronica was hanging out in one of the hot spots highlighted in the files he'd reviewed the night before.

Highlighted was putting it lightly. Underlined, circled, printed in bold, and _then_ highlighted was more like it. If Veronica was still FBI, why was the DEA targeting the same ring? Most importantly, why hadn't he been informed? The selfish bastard inside him hoped he and Veronica were working separate cases. She'd upstaged him far too often, and this investigation was Logan's first chance to prove himself worthy. He wasn't going to let anything or anyone prevent him from his glory moment. Up until two years ago, he'd never cared about other people's opinions of him, but a lot had changed in that short space of time. Evidence of the change was sitting, whiskey in hand, only ten feet ahead.

Taking a seat as far away from her as possible, but making sure he could see her every move from the corner of his eye, he made himself discrete, blending into a mahogany booth. Despite keeping one eye fixed on his ex, and another firmly set on the three dark haired figures in the corner, Logan had a feeling tonight's takings at O'Malley's wouldn't be enough to pay the bartender's rent, never mind keep the pub's doors open for business.

In the twenty minutes he had been in the pub, not a single soul had walked through the double doors, which further sparked his suspicions about the owner's means of income. Predicting a slow night ahead, Logan passed the time by trying to fill in the three year gap in Ronnie's life between Hearst graduation and the present.

* * *

**11:08pm**

About ready to leave, after an almost-pointless night of surveillance, the sound of a stool being pushed back and away from the bar caused Logan to raise his eyes. Veronica was leaving. Sliding a twenty across the bar, her small stature forced her to bounce down from the tall chair. Movement equaled change. Logan's lungs didn't agree with change, and his nerves started to restrict his breathing. The sudden shift heightened his senses. A tall, lanky man, dressed in a 70s-style shirt resembling his dead grandma Lester's curtains, had entered the pub through the back hallway. To Logan's surprise, after making his way over to the inebriated men in the corner, and whispering quickly in the largest one's ear, the stranger met up with Veronica halfway down the bar.

_No. Please. Not now. Not again._ Of course she was involved. Why had he even bothered to question it? It may not have been a surprise, but what happened next definitely captured his attention. Lifting onto the tips of her toes, Veronica reached up to kiss the stranger on the lips, allowing his arms to circle her waist and degradingly grab her ass.

Logan tried to disregard the gesture. Right now, he had no choice but to sit back and wait as the newcomer led a stumbling Veronica out the back, and out of sight.

* * *

**11:59pm **

**Veronica's Apartment**

Two years as a rookie DEA agent, and Logan Echolls knew all the signs of drug addiction, from overwhelming anxiety to panic attacks and weight loss, even a simple runny nose kicked his blow-addiction radar into gear. Long before his current gig as a responsible, tax-paying employee, Logan had witnessed his fare share of drug-induced episodes. But nothing could've prepared him for the sight only two feet to his right, curled up on an inappropriately pure white couch. Her skin as pale as snow, eyes unfocused and glazed over, Veronica's posture screamed anxiety, shame, and submission. Any attempt to hide her vulnerable state from Logan had failed.

They'd been sitting in silence for a good six minutes now. The only sound in the room came from a house party across the street. If he was going to take advantage of his upper hand and get answers anytime soon, Logan had to speak up. Although it had yet to happen, he could lose control of the situation at any moment, and Veronica could kick him out of her apartment. He wouldn't put it past her to do it without giving him so much as a clue about her business in Brooklyn, or why her apartment smelled less like lavender and vanilla and more like stale beer and leftover pizza. He also knew the silence in the room had not been caused merely by the shock of running into each other after so long, but also by the circumstances of the chance meeting. He just couldn't figure out what to ask or where to start, and more importantly, how to ask the right questions to get her to tell him the truth.

Not only was Logan anxious, but also there was little in the tiny room to divert his attention. Other than the obvious TV, couch, and coffee table, the contents of Veronica's living room consisted of a shelf with a few scattered books, a work desk, bare apart from the essentials, and a healthy bonsai tree perched on a table near a small window.

Once, back home in San Francisco, upon the advise of a concerned friend, Logan had bought himself a bonsai tree. He'd been told maintaining a bonsai tree required intense time and effort, but the attention the plant needed was supposed to distract him, keep him from getting lost in his job. Unfortunately, his tree died after a mere two weeks of care. The death didn't really affect him because, at the time, he was close to a promotion, a promotion that would be much more fulfilling than the survival of a stupid potted plant. Maybe Veronica had the plant for the same reason. Maybe she was working herself to the bone, getting lost in her investigations.

Although he had only experienced the intensity of covert undercover work from a distance, Logan knew where the line was supposed to be drawn between work and play. There were those who got involved, but sometimes, some people got too caught up, denying the effect it has on their lifeand those around them. Eyes fixated on the trembling of her brittle hands, Logan had a horrible feeling - Veronica was in denial.


	2. Chapter 1

See the Prologue for the disclaimer and general info.

**clairlz:** Thanks for the comment. :)

**p2880: **No, no rewrite, I just felt the need to post what I had already written on the site to try and get some encouragement to continue. and writers block caused a long hiatus. I definitely plan on finishing it. It is all planned out. I just need the motivation and to get past one point that is causing me strife.

* * *

****Chapter One:****

Monday, May 27th - 12:01am  
Veronica's Apartment

"Although I agree silence in New York should be savored and cherished-"

"Why?" Logan pushed.

The silence in the room had become deafening. While Veronica was thankful Logan had reacted following a good ten minutes of knuckle cracking, toe tapping and curious glances, being cut off mid-sentence always managed to push her aggravation level up a notch. The side of Veronica's mouth curled up in a crooked grin as she spoke. "Why should silence be cherished?"

There was no reply, the question more of a diversion tactic than anything else. The feel of movement, a sudden shift in body angle, had left Veronica no choice but to look up from the fascinating red wine stain dotting the corner of the couch cushion. She'd tried, but it was just too much of a struggle. Too hard to face his reluctant concern, as his brown eyes bore into her. She knew what she must look like on the outside. What a stranger would see if they walked past her on the street. Having not had the chance to see for herself, she imagined the faint red mark under her left nostril, the bruise-like darkness under her eyes. Her skin was too pale and her hands were constantly moving, rubbing, scratching, anything but staying still.

"Oh, yeah. I remember how this one goes..." The tremble in his voice was easy to detect. "This is where you completely avoid the matter at hand, then manage to turn the conversation 'round 180 degrees to place the blame upon _me_." Although his tone had a tinge of bitterness at the edges, the knotting of his brow and his relentless stare obliterated any ill will in his accusation.

Maybe if she hadn't looked up, she would have taken offense at his deliberate attempt to spur some emotion in her. Luckily, she'd had a lot of practice analyzing people, seeking out their flaws, their triggers, and their insecurities. At this point, Logan was the last person she wanted to analyze. Doing so meant she would be forced to see the unwanted in herself, uncover the concealed truth, the undeniable reality the cocaine which was running through her system was supposed to be suppressing right about now.

However, it had been an hour since her last line. Feeling herself slowly come down from her high, Veronica unfolded her legs and brought her knees down from underneath her chin, trying to get comfortable for the inevitable conversation. No point in stalling any longer. Minimal information should be enough to get him to leave her alone. But then again, it was Logan. Minimal was never enough for him when it came to revealing her secrets.

"Fine. I'll tell you why I was in a run-down Irish pub, throwing back whiskeys, if you tell me what the hell you were doing in the _same_ pub?"

"Felt like slummin' it." His pause was brief as he switched from sarcastic to serious. "Your turn." She wasn't going to let him get away with the blatant brush off, but Veronica knew he had the right to be as curious as he was.

Eyes downcast, her reply was laced with hesitancy. "It's complicated, Logan. Not to mention highly confidential."

"You've never been one to follow the rules, Mars. Why start now?"****

* * *

O'Malley's Pub_  
40 minutes earlier..._

Johnny Fallon was terrible at hiding his emotions. One could always decipher his mood by observing his posture and the position of his hands. Right now, he was seated on a miniature stack of crates, shoulders slumped, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans.

It was time she pulled the man out of his troubling thoughts. "Where were you? We were supposed to meet forty minutes ago," she said in a neutral tone.

With short mousy-brown hair stuck at odd angles by an exuberant round of finger combing, Johnny's eyes closed briefly before he started to explain. "One of our best contamination exterminators quit a week ago. A live snake was found in one of the shipments at Red Hook..."

Veronica could tell he was racking his brain, trying to make his excuse sound plausible. The 'no reliance' rule seemed to be fading with every passing day of their three month relationship. The more she witnessed 'Johnny the Gentleman' or 'Johnny the Man with a Conscience', the more she wished he would escape the grasp of his uncle. But an absent nephew would destroy all hope she had in making the bust. She had worked too hard, committed and relinquished too much of her mind and body to have it all evaporate with the disappearance of her only source.

She knew exactly where he'd been, and what he had been doing. She knew he was involved in his uncle Larkin's drug trafficking ring. His job in the customs department for the Port Authority ensured the problem-free exporting and transportation of Larkin's cocaine shipments.

Two weeks ago, earlier than scheduled, one of Larkin's workers had left an old backpack containing 8-balls in the bus terminal close to the port. The plan had been to pick up the backpack and take it into Manhattan, where it would be delivered to a dealer, but it never happened. Port Authority police found the backpack before it could be retrieved. Luckily for Larkin, there was no way to connect the drugs to him or Johnny. Due to the worn-out look of the bag, and the small amount of cocaine inside, the police assumed it had been left behind by a small-time dealer, and didn't investigate further.

Hearing about the incident on the local news, and believing the backpack was one of Larkin's, Veronica collected the police and forensic reports, confident the backpack could eventually be linked to the mob. Knowing Larkin wasn't the type to let such an idiotic move slide, she'd made a note to check all hospitals in the neighborhood for victims of assault. Instead of dealing with the mess himself, Larkin had done what all bosses did; he'd sent one of his henchmen to do the job.

"How many drinks have you had?" His accusing tone pulled her concentration back to the agitated man in front of her. She was sure he'd been talking the whole time her mind had gone for a wander. Maybe that was the reason for the shift in the vibe of the dark storeroom.

Suddenly, she was conscious of her unfocused vision, her body leaning heavily on the rough stucco wall. "Not that it really matters, but..." she trailed off, contemplating her answer. "I don't know, you'd have to ask Mike." Her left arm was bent across her chest, index finger pointing in the general direction of the bar. "I don't often make it a priority to count them as I go."

"Yeah, well, maybe I had something to say. I'm not even gonna bother if you're drunk and high as a fuckin' kite."

She tried to act sober. Tried to collect herself and hoped he would continue to talk, to open up. Her hands started to shake as she watched him stare at the dusty painting of his immigrant ancestors hanging on the wall behind her. As her unrelenting gaze got more intense, his body began to withdraw, his eye-line drifting to the concrete floor a few meters to her left. It was all too new. Where was the crude mouthed, beer guzzling, emotionally closed-off guy she'd met four months prior?

Giving up, she grabbed the tiny clear packet from her jeans pocket. Drunk, she'd been unable to use her innate ability to foresee an opportunity to get closer, losing the moment. Having taken a seat on the footstool beside him, she turned to face her boyfriend. Trying to pull his forlorn eyes from the ground, she placed the baggy directly in front of his face.

His hand pushed the blow away, voice laced with resignation when he spoke. "No, Sam."

She was getting sick of her pseudonym, Samantha. Maybe she should have put more time into choosing one she actually liked.

"You sure? It'll help you relax. It looks like you could use a little... or a lot." The last three words were mumbled under her breath. She couldn't afford to lose his growing trust, yet her current actions weren't helping.

Before she could stop him, he pushed off the crates, standing tall. In the same moment, Veronica stuck her finger in the small bag, raised it to her left nostril and took a regretful hit. It happened all too fast. She would have stopped herself if she'd known he was about to leave. Head low as she sniffed the remnants of the blow, she observed Johnny's feet still on the concrete floor in front of her.

For the second time in ten minutes, Johnny reminded her how she'd managed to fuck up by getting caught up in the very lifestyle she was investigating. "Go clean yourself up. You look terrible," he forced out through the thin space between his firm lips.

It wasn't supposed to go like this. He was supposed to be the unstable one, to want to confide in her, not be put off by her acquired habits. She was the one who was supposed to be disgusted by what he was doing for extra cash. She was not in the wrong here and he couldn't use that against her. Both were dithering between redemption and damnation, too scared to face the finality of making a decision. When the gateway to drugs, violence and organised crime became the good guy, she knew something needed to change; _she_ needed to change.

When she supplied him with nothing but a dumbfounded look, his expression softened. "I know this isn't you. Where's the woman I met a few months back? The one who stood proud and alert?"

"You tell me."

He was gone with a shake of his head, but before Veronica made the decision to follow him out, she bent down to pick up a card-sized notebook that had fallen from his shirt pocket.

Exactly ten minutes had passed since Veronica went out the back hallway. As Logan looked up from his watch, the man she'd greeted earlier rushed through the pub and straight out the front door. Not wanting to risk being seen by Veronica, he pushed his empty glass away, getting ready to leave the pub.

Before he got the chance to get the hell out of there, Veronica emerged from the hallway. Reflexes fired up, Logan's body remained frozen in place, his mind racing to come up with a way to remain unseen. It was too late. Shock reflected on Veronica's face, replacing an expression of pure determination. All Logan could do was watch, her eyes pleading with him to show no recognition as she slowly made her way to the exit. If they were both undercover, there was no way he was going to screw up the investigation. _No need to start doing _that_ again. _

In the fleeting moments preceding her final steps towards the exit, Logan glimpsed Veronica placing a small notebook into her pants pocket. To his discomfort, two of the men in the corner had also seen the subtle action. By the way one of the guy's brow had morphed into a V, Logan could tell the book was important. He made a mental note to look into it later. Maybe even question Veronica about it. That was, of course, if he ever saw her again.

Having decided to avoid attracting attention by staying seated, it took all of Logan's will power not to say 'fuck it' and storm out of the bar in pursuit of Veronica. He raised his glass for another refill, waiting, killing time until he could make his move. The men in the corner also remained seated, causing Logan to believe they did not feel the need to follow her out. In perfect synchrony each man picked up his poker hand and continued to play as if nothing had happened.

Seven minutes and forty-three seconds – the exact amount of time to evade suspicion. Throwing a twenty onto the table, Logan shoved his hands into his pockets, casually making his way out of the pub. Once he was through the doors, he filled his lungs with the fresh night's air and glanced down the street in both directions, trying to remember where he'd originally come from, momentarily having lost his bearings. Apart from the distant noise of a stray Jack Russell terrier rummaging through garbage bins, the street was silent. Logan sensed Veronica was close by. The only place she could have been hiding was an alleyway to the left of the pub. Recognising a building further down the street, Logan headed in the opposite direction of the alley. If she were going to spy on him, he'd humor her until the last possible moment.

Only a few steps down the sidewalk, Logan heard a quick cry behind him. He turned toward the brief but high-pitched yelp. Ass firmly planted on the filthy concrete, right hand loosely clutching her left ankle, Veronica slouched to the side, her left hand supporting her body. Her back was turned to Logan, as if she'd deliberately spun around on her way down, avoiding a confrontation. _Always prepared, that one._ By the look of things, she'd managed to stumble on a small, empty, half-bottle of spirits abandoned in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Veronica..." He couldn't keep the impatience out of his voice. "You're gonna have to get up at some point. Just take my hand, or get up on your own, if you prefer."

Logan stood stoic at Veronica's feet, arm extended in front of her face, offering his hand. She wouldn't meet his gaze, whether from embarrassment, nerves, or fear, he couldn't tell. But he wasn't going to stand there much longer. It was up to her to reach for his hand. Logan hoped she would ignore her pride and just accept help for once in her life.

Finally, she looked up. Even under the murky glow of the streetlights, he could see Veronica was still high. There was no way she would be able to get up of her own accord; she had no choice but to take his offer. So he wasn't surprised when she raised her hand to his, her tiny, clammy fingers fitting into his firm, warm grasp. As he lightly pulled Veronica to her feet, Logan placed a hand on the back of her shoulder in order to keep her upright.

"Thanks," Veronica mumbled under her breath, meeting his gaze, her hand still nestled in his.

Logan nodded, flashing her with one of his classic smirks. "Come on, I'll get us a ride."

He led her down the street, away from the dreary pub and towards a more populated area. Flagging down the first cab in sight, Logan reluctantly let go of Veronica's hand so she could crawl into the back seat. Climbing in next to her, he ordered the driver to head north.

Veronica spoke up a few blocks in to the ride. "I live here in Bay Ridge."

"You couldn't have said that when we first got in?"

"Thought you already knew. You know where I drink, why not where I sleep?"

In the awkward silence that ensued, the cab driver covered his laugh with a forced cough and turned back towards Veronica's apartment. Logan thought it was ironic - Bay Ridge was known for its conservative, strong family presence, yet it was also home to a considerable number of Irish pubs. The neighborhood was nicknamed 'Bar Ridge' by many, or 'Slay Ridge' after the unsolved murders that had occurred in the mid 90s.

Unseen by most, what happened late at night, in the back room of a pub, the family room of an Irish home, the shadows of a dock, was usually the most dangerous activities of organised crime. Who would suspect a drug lord could successfully run his illegal business out of a wealthy district in Brooklyn, a suburb of predominately middle-class citizens? Logan was sure Veronica's government paycheck allowed for a nice brownstone apartment in the area.

While Veronica attempted to rattle off her precise coordinates to the driver, Logan observed the passing buildings, all the while listening to the conversation going on beside him. Her directions were futile, a stop/start collection of words all muddled together. It was obvious the driver understood her broken sentences only because of his thorough knowledge of the local streets. An outsider would have thought she was trying to provide the directions to Timbuktu.

For a middle-class Brooklyn neighborhood, Bay Ridge had its fair share of rundown homes hidden between modernized brownstones. The cab headed west of the popular 3rd, 4th, and 5th Avenues, further from the expensive harbor views of Manhattan and Staten Island, to an area within walking distance of the Irish pub they'd left a few minutes ago.

Logan couldn't remember the last time a two-minute cab ride had felt like an hours journey. He'd spent the short time trying to decide whether to; a) walk Veronica to her door and leave, telling her he'd be back to talk; b) walk her to her door and follow her inside; or c) stay close to the cab and give a weak wave as she ascended the steps. With little desire to further prolong the evening, he settled on the last option. He needed time to process, to calm his nerves and devise proper questions, ones that could lead him to answers that would impress his supervisors. After three years, he didn't want the first significant conversation he had with his ex to be a heated argument. Now that he'd seen her in the flesh, seen what her current condition was, he needed time to cool off in order to prevent a disaster. The decision to leave her without so much as a goodbye left him with a dull ache in his chest. He comforted himself with the reminder that she wasn't too coherent. Any conversation they had tonight would be pointless.

By the time Veronica reached the front door, Logan had reentered the cab, having promised to return. Refusing to look back, he ordered the driver to take him straight to the Marriott at the Brooklyn Bridge.

It took him all of ten seconds to change his mind. Asking the driver to make the first left and pull up around the corner, he shook his head and released a frustrated sigh. How she kept such a stranglehold on his conscience, he didn't know. Even now, after so long, Veronica had an uncanny ability to make him question the simplest of actions.

With all the energy drained from her body, Veronica rested her head against the dark wooden door, trying to push the night's events out of her head. With a sharp intake of air, she shoved her hand into her purse to retrieve her keys, mystified as to how she'd managed to keep hold of her purse the entire evening.

Hearing heavy footsteps before she heard the arrogant greeting, Veronica spun around to see a figure across the street, his destination made obvious by the hollered, "Hey, you!" An added cliché whistle of approval and an obscene gesture was followed by, "How 'bout you bring that fine ass over here. Show me what you can do with it!"

The comment wasn't completely out of place. The vulgar man had just exited the building directly across from her own, where a house party raged on the top floor. Classic rock played loudly and voices could be heard trying to make conversation over the blaring speakers.

The sleazy guy started to cross the street, heading directly for her. Clutching her keys, she yanked them from her purse in record speed, only to end up doing the mandatory fumble. A sharp cry escaped her lips as an arm circled her waist, shoved a hip into hers. Instantly she recognised the soft embrace. Not a hard grasp, but the smooth feel of a body fitting perfectly into hers.

Remembering, for a moment, a time when this was natural, Veronica briefly closed her eyes and let the tension leave her body. She was brought back to present-time when Logan spoke, his voice thick with intimidation. "Dude, back off. She's mine, and you ain't laying a finger on her."

The man halted, one foot on the curb. Running a nervous hand through his greasy hair, he stormed back to where he'd come from, muttering insults under his breath.

Veronica opened the door. The two pushed inside, and simultaneously shied away from each other. Her home was an old brownstone that had been converted into apartments. The outside of the building was deceiving. With a new coat of white paint, dark, navy windowsills and gothic railing, it appeared modern and warm. Once inside, however, the floorboards creaked, the wallpaper was a faded white, and the air was cold and stuffy, like the inside of an airplane. Veronica could see the surprise on Logan's face. Maybe he'd expected a vase full of flowers on a small, polished Victorian table, or an elegant chandelier casting a warm glow over the entranceway.

When she felt his attention on her, biting back an 'I'm a tough girl. I don't need protection' remark, Veronica asked a question seldom uttered by a person prone to running away. "Do you wanna come up?"

Without a word, Logan began walking up the stairs. Veronica just rocked her head up and down in a small succession and followed closely behind, holding onto the railing to keep herself steady on the way up.****

* * *

Monday, May 27**th**** - 12:04am  
Veronica's Apartment**

Carefully watching her every move, Logan waited as Veronica prepared herself. Rubbing her hands together in her lap, her eyelids only closed at random intervals, as if she had lost the automatic ability to blink. Never one for patience, Logan raised his eyebrow and turned towards her in expectation. "Today would be good."

As if his voice brought her out of her reverie, a puff of air escaped her lips in a scoff, her head lifting to look his way. Logan wasn't sure what caused such a reaction to his comment, but her brief response was quickly forgotten when she began to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. "For months now the Bureau has been investigating numerous murders around Brooklyn. Originally they were believed to be isolated incidents, but when a local mob member was placed at the scene of the crime, we were brought in to draw a connection between the murders and bring down the mob boss and his cronies."

"Larkin O'Malley. Irish dude with a taste for committing felony."

"How do you-" Veronica began. Logan raised both his brow and hand, cutting her question short. She continued when he gave no indication of divulging. "I guess that means you've heard about Larkin's notorious crime family. Generations of petty criminals manifested into one big organised mob. Larkin's been on Santa's naughty list for years, almost his whole life, really. After only a few weeks of surveillance, it was assessed that the murders could be part of a much bigger picture."

"The drug ring."

Although unnecessary, he'd felt an urge to interrupt again. Her fast paced explanation caught him off guard. He'd expected a quick, hollow reply, not a complete debriefing of her involvement. She'd brushed off his prior knowledge of Larkin too easily. He wouldn't put it past Veronica to be fully aware of his business in New York.

Eyes wide, corners of her mouth pulled up, Veronica confirmed his suspicions with a sarcastic cheer. "That's the one!" She lowered her voice to a more somber tone before adding, "Large-scale shipments and off-shore numbered accounts, plus the help of a corrupt border control allows for land, air, and sea transportation of the contraband. Larkin's got connections in all the required sectors, including customs. It's the whole shebang."

"And that's not enough to bring him in?"

"I..._we_ don't have solid or hard evidence. All I've found is resting peacefully in here." Detecting her sarcasm on the word 'peacefully', Logan didn't need to be facing her to know she was pointed at her head. "'Bout to cause me an aneurysm. It's all hearsay, assumptions, fleeting glimpses, and overheard conversations."

"Then why doesn't the FBI bring in more people? If ones not enough, why not bring in a unit?"

He should stop asking so many questions. One too many could jeopardize his progress. Digging too deep was surely to result in silence eventually. Obviously he hadn't pushed her too far, as she continued, directly answering his inquiry without a second's hesitation.

"And raise suspicions? They trust me to collect enough intel to prosecute and make the bust. I'm almost there, I just..." Veronica's voice trailed off, a newfound hesitancy spreading across her features. Face changing to a blank expression, she looked Logan square in the eyes and asked, "So I assume the DEA have caught on to Larkin's shifty behaviour?"

"Hmm. About that..." Before finishing he turned to face her at the other end of the couch and prepared to assess her response. "Why didn't the FBI feel the need to contact us?" His tone held a reasonable amount of indignation.

If Logan had to hear her release another sigh tonight, he was going to hit something. Hard. What little was left of his patience was hanging on by a thread.

"Did you not listen when I told you it was highly confidential?"

"Arrogant pricks," Logan muttered.

Ignoring the jab, Veronica went on to explain how investigations involving organised crime controlling and affecting such a vast number of people, businesses, state and government departments, was usually put under level four security measures. It was the top-secret clearance only one down from SCI, which was reserved for matters of national security and protection.

Veronica's anxiety levels peaked. She finished her speech in an exasperated rush. "Hell, I could get _shot_ for telling you all this shit."

Logan didn't for a second question the truth of that statement. Then why was she letting him know the full deal? The old Veronica would have stopped at 'its confidential'. If the DEA found out he were conversing with a FBI agent on one of their own investigations, he'd be back to playing sidekick for months. While the two organisations occasionally played nice, neither wanted the other to steal their thunder, much like a child trying to outdo their sibling in the battle for cutest offspring. He had yet to tell her anything about the DEA and the reason for his placement here on the east coast. Both of them had made assumptions about the others presence, only his assumptions had just been confirmed.

_Who said she wasn't lying? It could be the influences of whatever she was on. _Having worked for the DEA for almost two years, Logan knew the one way to get a nosy bystander off your back was to claim the situation was top secret. While it left the person fascinated and craving more information, in most cases it guaranteed they'd back off in an instant. No doubt from fear that they themselves would get caught up in the crossfire.

From what Logan had read in the files on Larkin, the guy was bad news. There was no direct evidence linking the Irish crime family to the local murders or even a localized drug scandal. If Veronica had yet to gather sufficient evidence in the few months Larkin had been under close watch, Logan had a feeling he wouldn't be leaving the east coast anytime soon, and neither was Veronica. _Not that she would ever consider moving back to California._ She wouldn't rest until justice was served and the jerk was settled in nicely at a maximum-security prison, convicted of all possible charges laid upon him and those who followed his lead.

A cold draft cut through the small room. The four walls of Veronica's apartment didn't really block out the chilly night air. Wearing only a fitted cotton jacket over a long-sleeved striped top, Veronica felt the cold move swiftly from the tips of her toes to the centre of her spine, causing a shiver through her body. Johnny called her a wimp when it came to the forces of nature. Veronica liked to think of it as the consequences of having been raised in sunny, warm Southern California, where 48 degrees was considered freezing. The humid summer months were just around the corner, but so far, she'd failed to adjust to seasonal weather in New York.

She'd done her part; it was time to hear what Logan had to say. Not that it was required. She knew he worked for the DEA. It wasn't too hard to keep track of your ex. Not if you grew up an intrepid teen detective.

Veronica wasn't about to let Logan know she'd kept track of him for the past three years. Judging by his sharp stare, and the curl of his lower lip, Logan was processing the information she'd given him. She'd said a lot more than necessary, the words falling from her mouth before she could take control. Turning the magnifying glass onto Logan, Veronica asked a question she already knew the answer to, hoping he'd supply her with new intelligence. "How long have you been with the DEA? What do they have on Larkin?"

"Few years now, and I'm not telling you anything," he replied, waving a hand near his face, not willing to relent. "I didn't force you to spill all those details, but _I'm _not gonna risk my career..." Shaking his head, frustration clear, he struggled with the decision whether or not to give in to the girl he used to be unable to keep secrets from. "Fuck, Veronica... what did you expect?"

Rolling her eyes, Veronica announced, "Just stop, Logan. If you don't want to share, I'll figure it out myself. I'll even ignore this conversation, but only if you promise me you won't tell your superiors we're investigating. DEA is in the dark for a reason." She spoke the last part slowly and clearly, to ensure he understood.

Logan stood abruptly, running his fingers through his hair. Surprised by the sudden movement, Veronica blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Do you want a drink?"

Even though she could think of no reason to keep Logan in her apartment any longer than necessary, the truth was, other than the criminal element she'd infiltrated, Veronica hadn't socialized with a human soul in a long time. The lack of morality, decency, and goodwill was getting to her, more than she would ever admit, especially to those who loved her more than she could comprehend. At present, her desire for a healthy, regular conversation outweighed her shame over her condition. She would play at normality tonight, and in the morning, wake up alone, and try to forget she'd spent time with Logan mere hours before.

Caught off guard, Logan ignored Veronica's desperate ploy and tried to find a safe way to end their conversation. He needed to get out before insults and rude ruminations were unleashed. "I think I've got the gist of it. We stay out of each other's way and pretend this never happened. You solve the mystery, and then I save your life. Gotcha."

"Logan..."

There it was again, the desperation surfacing beneath her words. He _really_ needed to leave, before their conversation turned volatile. "I don't know about you, but I can barely keep my eyes open." A white lie was almost harmless, but just like a paper cut, it always managed to leave you with a persistent sting. "I'm gonna go."

Logan could see she was disappointed. Three years ago, their positions would have been reversed. She'd be making up excuses to leave, running away from her problems, and he'd be exposing his emotions full-frontal, begging her to stay.

Not believing the old Veronica was gone for good, Logan relished the moment she reverted back to her old ways. Retreating within herself, Veronica kept her face shuttered, moving to see Logan out. "Right. I guess it's getting pretty late."

Halfway to the stairs, fake smile in place, Logan turned to say goodbye. He really didn't want to leave so soon. Judging by the way Veronica supported her weight with a shaky hand to the door, she was still under the influence, their conversation a clear contrast to her physical state. "We'll catch up later. Good luck, Veronica."

"It was good seeing you, Logan. Maybe next time we can catch up under less dramatic circumstances," Veronica added, wearing what looked like a genuinely happy smile.

_And the surprises keep coming._ If he could turn back time to when they'd run into each other earlier that night, he'd of made more of an effort to exchange pleasantries. He should have asked her how she was. What she did to kill time. Whether she missed Neptune. How her dad was. _Whether the man from the pub was her boyfriend._

"Nah, it's what makes us us. Normal never worked. Mysteries, secrets and hostility have always been our specialty."

Before she could reply, Logan loped down the stairs, away from Veronica, and out the front door.****

* * *

1:10am

Not bothering to remove her clothes, Veronica let her body fall flat on top of her bed. Body perfectly still, she dragged her head to the side, glancing over at the bottle of Grey Goose sitting close to the edge of her bedside table. She needed a drink. Just one. One that would help her sleep and cover up the nerves for the days to come. Logan would be once again in her life, making her emotions run amok. She wanted desperately to witness the man he had grown up to be, but any interaction with him could be disastrous to the case. From the brief encounter and nosy digging over the years, it looked like Logan had made a real effort to become a respectable, content, working man, and that scared her shitless.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, she twisted her body to face the ceiling. Ignoring the urge to fill a glass, Veronica pressed her eyelids together tightly and wished away the following weeks, hoping beyond hope they could both get back to their lives on opposite coasts, leaving no time for memories of Neptune to emerge. It wasn't the man she wanted gone; it was what he brought with him. She had gotten over the deceit and corruption; it was the reminder of who she once was that frightened her.

Although it was late in Brooklyn, it was early evening on the west coast. Her father would be sprawled out on his couch, watching baseball or MacGyver repeats. She needed to hear his voice. No matter what went wrong, her father always managed to sooth the unease that spread to every crevice, every vulnerable part of her. Decision made, Veronica grabbed her phone from the bedside table, hitting '1' on the speed dial.

"Hello there, daughter." All it took was a 'hello' to get Veronica to grin. "What spurred you to call your dear father this late? You haven't been arrested have you?"

"Now why would you assume I only call for help? I haven't pointlessly called you thousands of miles away the other half dozen times I've been in the slammer. Why would I start now?" Veronica made sure her joke came across as innocent. If her father found out she were in any kind of trouble, he'd be on the first flight over. The less he knew, the happier they both were.

Dropping all fronts to relax into conversation with her father was becoming harder by the day. She now had to make an effort to appear happy, even when it was only her voice he heard. He was finally enjoying life without her. The greedy child within wanted to pout and whine at his newfound contentment, but she never let him know how it made her feel. To Veronica, her father deserved the happiness more than anyone in the world. He had risked so much for her in the years following Lilly's death. The only way she knew how to show her gratitude was to leave him alone and tell him she loved him more than anything every chance she got.

Keith played along with her banter. Numerous B & E instances, espionage, and revenge schemes lightly rolled off the tip of his tongue.

Loosely following his playful rant, Veronica interrupted her father before he could finish his improvised list of incriminating behaviors. "I love you." The timing was off, yet it felt right to say it at that exact moment. Any earlier and he'd think she was in immediate danger. Any later, and he'd think she'd said it as a form of goodbye to end their weekly phone call.

The soft sound of a slowly released breath of air traveled through the line. "You too, sweetheart. Now, are you sure you're alright? The seasons are changing, you could be having an adverse reaction to that thing they call seasonal weather."

"I'm fine, Dad. I promise. Work has just been a little rough. Nothing to worry your pretty, shiny bald head over." That joke may have gotten old, but it never got stale in her mind.

"Thank god. I may love you, but I don't want to delve into my retirement fund to deal with any uncooperative colleagues. I'm looking forward to using that money to build my very own Tony Gwynn memorabilia collection."

If only eye rolling was a verbal communication tool. It'd make her responses to his silly comments all the more clear. While their conversing was doing a great job at stabilizing her mentally, Veronica's physical state still contradicted her words. Her hands still shook and it felt like a worm was eating at her insides, feasting on her anxieties.

Too drained to climb in under the covers, Veronica said goodbye to her father, reassuring him no late night calls would be made from a hospital or police station anytime soon, before resting her head firmly on her pillow. In six hours she'd have to report back to the office. Every last second of sleep she got may be vital to how well she presented herself later that morning. What a pity sleep never came easy these days.****

* * *

8:21am  
Marriott at Brooklyn Bridge

Marc Rodriquez, Logan's DEA supervisor, was a straightforward man, with little or no sense of humor. He was a man so focused on the job; he had no wife and no life to speak of. He could list his friends on a single hand. Piss him off and he'll never let you forget. He won't openly despise you or hold a grudge. Instead, he'll wait for the perfect opportunity to humiliate you in front of your peers, a menacing smirk always in place to make even the strongest man falter, as if he got pleasure from destroying those he found inferior. What he lacked in interpersonal skills, he made up for in double with professional efficiency. Logan had yet to get on his bad side. It took a lot for Logan to fear a person. Rodriquez was one of the only human beings that truly intimidated him. Keith Mars and a determined Veronica being the only others.

When Logan called in to his boss, he'd expected the first words out of Rodriquez's mouth to be a question on the case. He wouldn't be greeted and niceties wouldn't be exchanged. A muffled cough, a moment's pause, then he'd get straight to the point. "Did you get anything?"

"Not yet. The place was dead. I was there for over an hour and only two people came in for a drink. There were three dudes in a booth, furtherest away from the door. They drank a lot and played poker the whole time. Not once did they move. Barely a word was spoken by anyone."

Logan didn't want to mention Veronica. They didn't need to know she was there. If they found out, he could be the catalyst of dire consequences.

"You only just got there. We'll get something eventually. Recognise any of the men from the file?"

"Hard to say. The joint was just like a typical Irish pub. Dark, low light, and it stunk of beer. The guys were large, but none of them fit the pictures or even the descriptions. I think they could be involved, but I don't think they're important enough to tail."

"What about the girl?"

_Oh, shit._


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks again for the feedback, guys. The usual disclaimer applies.

* * *

Chapter Two:

**Wednesday, June 12****th**** – 10:15pm  
Casa Nostra Private Airfield, Staten Island**

Veronica's car came to a slow stop along the side of the hangar. Having maneuvered her small Mazda Familia through the quiet airfield, she'd parked away from any prying eyes, but within close distance of the exit for a quick getaway if events went awry. Grabbing her camera from the passengers seat, she made her way to the edge of the building, poking her head around the corner. The runway was empty, not a soul in sight: perfect conditions for when one wanted to remain inconspicuous. Sliding her body down the corrugated iron wall, she stretched her legs out, letting the nerves shake and tense with appreciation.

A day spent closely following her lead had restricted Veronica to the confines of her car. Her tailbone ached and her thighs and knees screamed for release. The torrential rain that had fallen all day denying her body the freedom it desired. It had cleared up since, the night's sky now calm and silent. Earlier that day the radio had done little to pass the time. Kept on for just a few minutes, the constant, loud, annoying ads had made the heavy feeling in Veronica's head turn into a full-blown headache. Determined to get out of her self-destructive slump, she'd remained clean since the day after her run in with Logan. The withdrawals were minor, more nuisances than anything else. Her mind and senses needed to be clear and alert. There was notime for escapism. It was the here and now she had to focus on. Ignoring the headaches, twitching hands, and displaced aggression, she spent her free time away from the pub and distanced herself from Johnny. All it had taken was a glimpse of reality, of a life back home, to set her back on track.

Tonight's lead had come from the tiny notebook Johnny had dropped in the pub's storeroom. In bright red ink, the words "BM - WB/CN" were scribbled across page 34. Directly below the initials was the day's date. So far it was one of the only discernible pieces of information Veronica had been able to draw from the tiny, hopefully incriminating book. Looking over her compiled notes, the initials W.B. stood out as the nickname for Larkin's best man and protégé, Riley Miller. She'd picked up on all of the nicknames and common phrases early on, jotting them down in neat handwriting and adding the document to the evidence file. It'd been over a month since her last update. Armed with her latest discovery and fired up on newfound determination, Veronica could see the file getting a whole lot thicker in the near future.

A quick glance back out to the open airfield saw a car pull up just outside the spotlights that cast down on the runway and the entrance to the hangar. The headlights remained on as the car stopped. No one emerged, the car sitting in silence, waiting quietly for the other party to arrive. Distracted by a low rumbling noise, Veronica looked up and saw flashing lights on what appeared to be a small private plane as it began its descent onto the dark runway. Sitting back and waiting, Veronica watched as the plane crept along the bitumen, finishing its course near the parked car. Off to her left, and a little too close for comfort, a new set of headlights shone across the old tarmac road as yet another car approached. Hopefully the row of replica fighter aircrafts and limited nighttime visibility worked well to keep Veronica's car obscured from any cautionary scoping done by the latest arrivals.

Doing what she did best, Veronica adjusted her camera lens and aimed for the three men grouped together, surrounded by the two cars and plane. Finger poised over the shutter button, a few shots captured clear photographic evidence of a conversation between members of Larkin's mob and a drug associate, a passing on of a suspicious file, and shoulder pats between Riley and the unknown visitor. Pulling the viewer away from the men for a moment, she searched the side of the plane for any possible markings. Next to the open door, an image stood out in the dim light against the white couldn't be distinguished immediately, a few enhancements on her laptop could help identify. Quickly snapping a few photos of the indiscernible design, Veronica focused back on the men. Judging by the beginning of movement and the sharp handshakes the meeting was over.

Riley had turned and walked into the hangar, leaving the others to finish business, revealing Johnny as the man who had stood sheltered by Riley's staunch and overbearing frame. He was finely dressed in a business suit, sans tie, his usual Port Authority work attire. Looking over the retreating shoulder of the lone figure who had emerged from the mysterious private plane, Johnny gazed in Veronica's direction, barely moving an inch, much like you did when lost in thought or transfixed by a strange object. He couldn't possibly have seen her. She'd made sure only the top of her head and camera could be seen peering around the corner of the large hangar. The blinding light from above would surely be enough to keep her hidden. Anything beyond the reaches of the spotlight remained in complete darkness.

Instead of boarding his plane, the unknown white male made his way into the back seat of the second car. Veronica had forgotten it was on the runway. No one had exited the vehicle throughout the entire meeting. The black SUV was almost invisible without its lights turned on. Veronica took the chance to collect herself, getting ready to continue tailing, her hunched body thankful that the meeting had gone down so fast. Making the decision to follow the slowly moving car, she left Johnny, as he stood in place, now alone, showing no desire to move. Hopefully his lack of movement gave Veronica enough time to evade being seen leaving the airfield. She started her car, heading back the way she came, fog lights her only source of navigation until she was safely on the main road, a good distance behind the SUV.

She hoped the men in the car ahead were finished conspiring with drug dealers for the night. There was evidence to collect and analyze, on a brain that had had little rest in the past few weeks. With the investigation taking top priority she'd had to cancel her meeting with Logan the next day. After the abrupt ending to their lunch date last Thursday, Veronica was a little hesitant continuing the social outings with Logan; at least until a certain drug family was enjoying the pleasures of community soap.

* * *

**Thursday, June 6****th**** – 1:06pm  
Greenwich Village, Manhattan**

Logan was more than pleased he'd gotten the chance to escape the office for lunch. He'd spent the last week knee deep in strategy planning and database checks, wasting away in a cubical, itching to get back undercover. Rodriquez knew Logan hadn't told him the complete truth about his night at O'Malley's, so he'd given Logan mundane, yet mandatory tasks as a form of punishment. Rodriquez had yet to confront him, expecting Logan to succumb to his passive aggressive interrogation. Logan wouldn't give Rodriquez the pleasure in admitting he had a weak spot for a petite blond girl half his size.

He was running late, Rodriquez's stubborn attitude the reason he had to slip an extra hundred into the palm of the cab driver to get him to Greenwich Village on time.

Logan regretted offering the bribe a few blocks into his ride – a street festival had resulted in the driver refusing to drop him off any further than the George Washington memorial arch, modeled after the Arc De Triomphe in Paris. After a week of avoiding each other, Veronica had finally contacted him the night before, voice low as she asked him to meet her in Manhattan the next day, far away from the streets of Brooklyn. If he was late, she may leave, and Logan wanted desperately for their lunch together to go down with ease. He wanted to find out more about the new Veronica. What made her tick, what her favorite restaurant was, and if she still burnt her toast in the morning, or if she now stood over the toaster, hand on the 'cancel' button, like he'd suggested she start doing back in their sophomore year at Hearst.

Cutting through the crowd of spectators, Logan held his head high, trying to spot the Union Jack flag he'd been told would be hanging above a bright red door. Earlier he wondered why Veronica had chosen this particular area of Manhattan to meet. It made sense now, with the number of people he saw gathered in the streets, it was safe to say one could easily get lost, make themselves invisible to any followers.

Finding the place he'd been searching for, Logan pushed the door open slowly, a rush of cool air brushing past his face. The café smelled of fresh basil pesto and warm bagels, a clear contrast to the British exterior. There were no dark brown booths around the edges like at O'Malley's. Instead, all the seating was in the centre of the room. Small round tables, fit to seat three, maybe four at a time. In the busy café, dressed in a simple dark red camisole, baseball cap, and faded tight jeans, Veronica sat at a table near the back, her hand twisting a glass on the table, while her other pressed against her forehead. Unlike Logan's first image of Veronica at O'Malley's, his second is more lightweight and bright. He had yet to approach her, so given that it was only one o'clock in the afternoon and the atmosphere of the café was more Bohemian than Irish Mob, his surroundings could've been deceiving, like a new coat of paint used to cover the weathered rust on an old car.

Sensing his presence, Veronica's hand fell from her head, her neck slowly turning left, right, and then straight up as Logan approached the table. Her face was blank, void of any emotion, except for the faint creases at the side of her mouth. He returned her tight smile with a genuine grin, one that reached his eyes, conveying how thankful he was she'd invited him to lunch_._

"I once read it's considered rude to wear a hat inside a restaurant," Logan teased, in an attempt to alleviate the tension in the room.

"Last I checked, this was a _café_," Veronica countered, her eyes lighting up in amusement. "Also, that rule only applies to men according to traditional etiquette, but nice try."

The unease in Veronica's posture disappeared with the exchange. Logan sat himself down in the seat across the table while she leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms out, and clicked her elbows in the process. Her witty comeback reassured Logan that a part of the Veronica he knew back in college still remained. It was the part he missed the most of all her eccentric qualities.

Taking off his jacket, he checked to see if she'd finished her glass. He could smell the intensity of Bourbon most girls shied away from, preferring the sweeter, sour taste of Alcopops.

"Want another drink?"

It took her a moment to reply as she handed over her glass. "Bourbon and Cola, thanks."

Logan made his way towards the bar, resisting the urge to question Veronica on why she was drinking hard liquor before five. The café wasn't like your average coffee shop. A small bar was situated in the corner, with the beverage choices lined up along the wall. The table Veronica had chosen sat closer to the bar than the food. Deciding not to read into it too much, he kept his attention on the bartender while he ordered their drinks.

After returning to their table, Logan spun his chair around and crossed his arms on the backrest.

As Veronica took a long sip of her drink, Logan spoke up. "How long have you been living in New York?"

Another sip and she indulges. "I transferred here about six months ago from D.C. It was either here or L.A. Robert Downey Jr. was right when he said it was as if someone had taken America by the East Coast, shook it, and all the normal girls managed to hang on."

"You do realise you just called yourself fucked up. You can't deny where you're from, Veronica."

Spoken wistfully, Veronica replied, "No, but you can escape it."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Logan retorted, their sharp implications filling the space between them.

Veronica's hand rushed to cover her mouth as Logan's face fell. Their lunch date had turned awkward fast and all it took were two quick digs. After three years apart, you'd think their habit at turning hostile towards each other would've dissipated to some extent.

A short chuckle brought Logan's attention back to the girl seated in front of him. Hand still covering her mouth, head shaking back and forth, Veronica attempted to suppress the soft laughter escaping her lips, the awkwardness effectively evaporating from around them.

"Let's start again, shall we?"

"I think that's a _great_ idea," Veronica exclaimed, her hand back to fiddling with her now empty glass.

Veronica had called the night before, voice low and distant as she asked to meet Logan in Greenwich Village the next day. He'd managed to contain his glee with a casual yes. She'd sounded anxious on the phone, as if she'd been set up, unable to back down from making the invitation. Yet they both knew that wasn't true. Judging by her forlorn goodbye the night they ran into each other, seeing Logan had sparked a new sense of vigor in Veronica, long since tamed by a brief life of escapism and denial. If he could just get her to accept his help, he may be able to get her out of this mess and convince her to leave the FBI for greener pastures.

He couldn't talk; working for the DEA was no island paradise. Keeping a sane mind entailed leaving the danger, deception and corruption at the office. Separating the social from the professional was never one of Veronica's strong points.

They'd managed to keep the conversation relatively tame, sticking to the mundane and safe. After the disaster that was his first question, they'd settled comfortably into telling stories about past cases and how Logan came to work for the DEA.

A look of admiration and pride crossed Veronica's face when Logan told of his decision to become a do-gooder. In the months following Veronica's departure to Quantico, he'd spent his time just as many would've predicted; with women and booze on the shores of Malibu, using up his father's cash faster than Bill Gates made his. It had taken one disastrous night out, where he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, to put Logan on the straight and narrow. It'd become a common occurrence for him, always a victim of unfortunate circumstances. This time he was given an ultimatum; enter rehab and help the DEA bring down his dealer, or face conviction.

Making the decision was easy, facing the prejudice and tough-love that followed was not. If the CIA could produce assassins in secrecy and the FBI employed Veronica with her colorful criminal history, then the DEA could make use of a guy previously on the 'inside'. How he'd come to be a fully trained agent was anyone's guess. All he knew was that it had taken a lot of volition and hard work to get to where he was today, even if that meant he was still on a trail period during his first major assignment. His supervisors may never have known about Veronica if he hadn't been under such close watch.

Her response to his tale of success had been one of true delight. It was a given that she'd heard about his triumph over the years through her father and her own investigating. Yet as she listened intently to his story a light slowly began to shine in her eyes and a fondness radiated from her solemn smile, as if she was recalling a time when she believed he lacked the will to achieve excellence in life.

They'd been sitting in a comfortable silence since he'd gotten the lowdown on Veronica's adventures at the FBI, his nerves tested each time she raised her glass to her mouth just before divulging of raids gone wrong and colleagues harmed in action.

Logan figured it was time he got back to the office before his boss sent out a search party for his wayward self. He had one final question and hoped the direct approach would get him an answer.

"What'd you find in the pocket book? The one you picked up in the pub."

As if contemplating the safest answer, Veronica bit her lower lip and continued to twirl her empty glass on the hardwood table. She moved to request a refill, only to realise they were in a café, not a bar, and sheepishly placed her hand back in her lap.

Her eyes squinting as the low sunlight shone through the thin gaps in the café's blinds. Veronica opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. A look of shock crossed her face as she glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Got somewhere to be?"

"I'm sorry, Logan. I... there's some recon I have to do before..."

"Ahh, just when we were getting to the juicy stuff."

"Rain check?" Veronica offered, her mouth stretching into a pleading smile as she picked up her bag and stood to leave.

"I have to get back to the office anyway." Logan pointed his finger at Veronica before adding, "Don't think that means we've finished here. We have a lot to talk about."

Frowning, Veronica ducked her head, nodded, then made her way back out onto the streets of Manhattan. Logan stayed seated at the table, watching her frantically leave him and the café behind, curious as to where she had to be in such a hurry.

* * *

**Wednesday, June 12****th**** – 11:36pm  
Red Hook Terminal, Brooklyn**

A cool breeze blew the smell of salt water and rusted iron into the air. The clanking sound of a crane unloading containers from a cargo ship could be heard in the distance, the port's employees working a late night to get the fresh stock into the shops by dawn.

Away from the activities on the pier, Veronica followed the sound of thick boots along the old shipping containers now used as storage units. When the footsteps stopped, she bent down low and approached the edge of a container.

She'd tailed the black SUV all the way from Staten Island to Red Hook. Dodging security was difficult. Rent-a-cops walked the lanes created by rows of containers. The man she was following had taken the straight route through the open area separating the piers and the cargo. Veronica had to walk parallel to the man, staying hidden from the orange spotlights dotting the port.

Memorizing the number of the storage unit, Veronica watched as a small duffel bag was removed from the compartment. The stranger locked up and walked further into the darkness, leaving Veronica alone and desperate to take a look inside. Resting against the wall, she listened to the departing footsteps until satisfied she was alone. Deciding the risk of getting caught was too high, she retreated back to her car and back to her apartment for a long night of analyzing photos and identifying mystery drug associates. A few weeks ago, she'd have had a drug readily available to keep her awake through the night. Even if the effects were not desirable for proper brain function, Veronica was always convinced the sense of euphoria and enlightenment had helped her create the few ingenious moments she'd had in the past few months. Tonight she'd have to rely on good ol' caffeine to do the job, wanting to stay well away from the old vice. Sleep will just have to wait, along with settled nerves and a mind clear of nagging headaches.

* * *

**Thursday, June 13****th**** – 4:10pm  
O'Malley's Pub, Brooklyn**

Veronica approached the store as Johnny emerged from within and began pacing the sidewalk. She cleared her throat, pushing her nerves deep down, out of sight, and parked her car close by.

It looked as if he hadn't shaved or changed his clothes in days. Untamed stubble dotted his face, just short enough so you could still see parts of his skin. Veronica was thankful for his appearance. It meant she didn't have to put up a front or ignore the recent turn of events that had put a roadblock in their relationship. The elephant in the room was currently wearing an invisibility suit and it worked well to keep the distance between them justified.

Johnny turned to face her, his right hand grabbing her upper arm. "We need to talk."

It was no cliché breakup line. His words were not filled with regret or begging for forgiveness. They were full of suppressed anger, the fear in his eyes her only indication he wasn't about to pull her into a dark alley and empty a round on her.

When he started walking in the direction of O'Malley's, Veronica visibly flinched, inwardly berating herself for showing her vulnerability.

"Do you mind? I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own," she said in frustration, trying to push the imaginary power scale over to her side.

They'd reached the outside of the pub. Veronica tore herself free, turning to stand in front of Johnny. Ignoring her defiance, he held the door open and gently pushed her inside.

The pub was empty. The wooden chairs sat on top of the tables and the alcohol cage was locked. Without turning her head, Veronica checked the open room. Satisfied they were alone, she began to demand answers from Johnny, only to be beaten to the gun.

"Relax, _Veronica_. There's no one here."

"What did you just call me?" she breathed out.

Veronica's palms began to sweat. The hair on the back of her neck stood tall. It was a trap. She knew it. _And I was so close._

"Don't play the innocent card. I know your name's not really Samantha."

His tone was light, it didn't have the edge you'd expect from a man about to expose the traitor, or in her case, the mole. Taking a step forward, Johnny once again reached for her arm. She was too quick, stepping back and closer to the exit before he could take a hold. She was too curious and stubborn to make a run for it. She wanted to know how he knew who she really was and why he was approaching her as if to comfort rather than attack.

Chin held high in defiance, she decided to tread lightly and continued to play coy. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He crossed his arms, ready to play along with her game. "I know who you are and why you've infiltrated my family. I'm not going to harm you-"

"Why, thank you," she bite out. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go disappear before I end up in a body bag at the bottom of the East river."

"Wait! I want to help."

He sounded desperate and scared, the urgency rushing to her ears moments before she reached the door. One of Johnny's most obvious flaws was his inability to lie. His voice would crack at the edges, a faint stutter disrupting the flow of words. She heard none of that as he tried to keep her inside the pub.

Still with her back facing him, gaze directed at the closed door, Veronica weighed her options; trust Johnny and potentially find just what she needed, or get the hell out of Dodge and risk leaving Larkin in the hands of Logan. Not that she didn't want him to succeed. The thought of feeling subsequent guilt and terror over leaving Logan in such an unstable situation made her decision easy. She had never given up or handed over an assignment before, and she had no inclination to ever do so.

She spun around to face him, and the failure he represented. "If you want to help, why did you bring me _here_?"

"Right now it's the safest place. Larkin is having you tailed and it's my turn doing the honors. I know the pub's not bugged, so I figured we could talk in private."

"Ever thought of using a phone?" she sniped before realizing what he'd just told her. "Did you say tailed?"

"Yes, and I'm not stupid. I know you; you would have hung up and ignored me. This way I have a chance at grabbing your attention."

"You don't know me. You _knew_, Samantha." Her voice shook with anger, determined to separate the two personae now that he knew the truth.

"Just listen to me," Johnny said seriously.

He didn't have time for petty clarifications about the girl he may or may not have known/does know. It wasn't often Veronica caught a glimpse of Johnny taking a stand. If she'd had a moment to absorb this new trait, Veronica was sure she'd be turned on by his insistent attempts at gaining control.

"Not here, not in the pub. I don't care how safe you say it is." She turned and started towards the door, not looking back as she spoke. "You say I'm being tailed. Follow me to my car, get in, but don't you dare utter a word before I say so." Continuing, Veronica looked directly at Johnny as she clarified, "We go where _I_ want."

She opened her door to a bombardment of high and low pitched squeals. The sound of children playing came from all directions, at all volumes. The park was full of kids that had finished school for the day, releasing their pent up energy until the sun went down. It was a great environment for a conversation to get lost in the sea of noise.

Johnny trailed behind as Veronica headed towards the concrete path that wove through the freshly cut grass. It had rained quite heavily the night before, leaving the grass damp with a smell of fresh mud permeating the air.

"This doesn't mean I trust you. It takes years for anyone to earn my trust. Even then, I can never offer a guarantee. So whatever you're about to say, you better hope to God it's the truth, or you won't be seeing the light of day for a long, long time."

Johnny's brow rose high, but he didn't speak. His grip loosened as she felt his hand begin to go clammy in her own.

"I know you used me. That doesn't mean I'm not sorry for dragging you down with me."

"You never forced me to do anything," Veronica assured him softly. Johnny was not to blame for her own weak behaviour. Whether or not they'd gotten together, she'd have found a way to include herself in the extended O'Malley family. She hadn't spent seventeen weeks at Quantico just to learn how to watch and observe, detect and decipher. Manipulating the environment and those within was an essential skill, one she had learned as a teenager and almost perfected during training.

Cutting in front of their path, breaking their stride, a kid with dirt stained knees and a t-shirt big enough to fit two of him, chased a ball into a group of teenagers. Veronica watched as the boy left the safety of his mother's sight and entered the swarm of menacing youth, oblivious to the potential danger that lay ahead. Further into the crowded park, a man stood at the edge of the old playground, looking over and between the playing children for his target. His thick leather jacket in the warm spring weather was a clear indication he didn't belong. Johnny at least had the brains to leave his jacket in the car to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb.

Veronica made sure to disguise her growing anxiety, assuming Johnny had yet to see the man. Their strides were still in sync and his hand never let go of hers.

"You know, growing up I always thought my uncle was a good man. He gave me whatever I wanted and took me in, but I can't keep living like this. It's not me, Veronica." He couldn't even face her, his unfocused gaze looking out over the scattered children. "He's so determined on building an empire, it's made him ruthless. I want out, and I need you to get me out." Johnny stated carefully as they began to walk again. It wasn't a question. He spoke as if she owed him a favor and this was his request.

"Step back, wild child! First tell me what you know, then we'll get to the redemption part of the show."

"This isn't a fucking joke," he rushed out, tugging her arm to emphasis his point. "That night I was late meeting you at O'Malley's, Colin and Matty saw you pick up the book. They went straight to Larkin. He's been watching you ever since. I don't know why he didn't just get you killed."

If she hadn't been under the influence that night, she wouldn't be in this position, fearing the bust was never going to happen. Yet if she hadn't picked up the notebook, her case wouldn't have progressed as much as it had. Johnny had been her key all along, and now was her only chance to use it, to use _him_.

"He's a smart man. He'll want to know exactly who and what I am before he got rid of me."

Lost in his own thoughts and anxious to find a way out, Johnny ignored her explanation. "I said I'd help, but only if you promise to get me put into police protection."

Veronica bit her tongue to keep from telling Johnny that police protection was not his best option right now. What he needed was a new passport, plastic surgery, and enough cash to get him to another continent far, far away. If she told him she'd get him the protection he wanted, she'd get the valuable intel needed for the bust. If she told him the truth, she may never see or hear from him again.

"I promise," she replied in the best earnest voice she could muster.

Johnny released a thankful sigh, running his hand through his short, greasy hair in habit. "Larkin's on his way to Miami. If you're looking to catch him in the act, now's the time and Miami is the place. He's finalizing one of his biggest deals."

Veronica' brain went into overdrive. She knew who and what was in Miami. The photos she'd taken a few nights ago at Casa Nostra Private Airfield had proven helpful. The mysterious man that had emerged from the private plane turned out to be a Jacob Fisher of Miami, Florida. Adopted son to a lucrative businessman and CEO of Sandpiper Beverages Ltd, his company supplied high-quality liquor and common beers to pubs and businesses all around North and South America. An initial background check had come up clean. Veronica had no reason to suspect he was involved until she'd figured out his identity through the emblem on the side of his plane. The image of an alligator's head made connecting the dots and located his residence in Miami simple.

"And where exactly will this take place? Miami isn't exactly a small town. Drug dealers occupy every street corner and dock," Veronica pressed.

"I don't know, Larkin was never one for detail. All I ever got were orders. I couldn't even tell you the guy's name."

"You don't need to," she deadpanned.

The man who'd been following them disappeared to the outskirts of the park. A nondescript car pulled up and he got in, not once looking back at Johnny and her. It was time they left. Larkin's guy had been ordered to retreat. She was running out of time, the panic starting to seep through her veins, the faintest blur circling the edges of her sight.

Turning abruptly, Veronica dragged Johnny back to her car, pushing her way through the groups of children. Letting go of her hand, Johnny took the cue and moved beside her as they took a shortcut across the grass.

"What's going on? What happened?" Johnny asked nervously, his head turning in all directions, seeking the answer to his own question.

"You have to leave town," Veronica ordered. "Get out of New York when it's safe. I know I promised you police protection, but we don't have time for that. Use cash, and cash _only_. Steal a crappy car and camp out on the street, or stay in a motel that doesn't require ID. It's important that you stay low. No staying at an old friends' house, unless you have a death wish."

Johnny was staring at her as if she'd grown a second head, his eyes wide, teeth grinding together as he processed her instructions.

"You're really gonna go after him? It's dangerous, Veronica."

"You don't say," she replied sarcastically. "Now get in the damn car."

* * *

**Thursday, June 13****th**** – 7:43pm  
Veronica's Apartment  
Brooklyn, New York**

Out of breath and running on pure adrenaline, Veronica burst through her front door, heading straight for her bedroom. Using only a small flashlight, not wanting to attract attention, she removed a file from the top draw. Grabbing a duffel bag from underneath her bed, she filled it with the closest of bare essentials.

Senses on high alert, the sound of car doors being slammed shut rang through the calm night, freezing her movements. Placing her back firmly against the wall, she glanced out her bedroom window, seeing three burly men approach her building. She'd been so careful to avoid being seen, entering the building from the back alley.

With one last fleeting look around the room, she picked up a framed photo that lay face down on her bedside table. Staring back at her was a photo of herself and her father at Hearst graduation. In the background stood Logan, eyes trained on Veronica's back, unaware that his look of pride was caught on film. A series of disastrous events had pushed them apart during the stressful times of final exams in their junior year. They'd managed to keep on good terms as seniors, relishing in the comfort of a now long-standing, although rocky friendship. There were moments when their natural flirtatious behaviour towards each other became too much, often finding themselves in awkward situations. Many boyfriends and girlfriends had been lost to jealousy, but never were their feelings brought to the surface again since the end of their relationship the previous year.

Securing the frame deep within her bag, Veronica high-tailed to her apartment's side window, opting to take the fire exit. Only days before had she checked the safety of the thin, bolted down, metal ladder. Satisfied it was sturdy enough, the clanking of boots on metal echoed down the alley as she descended. Grabbing the last step, she swung a few times before letting go, falling the few meters to the ground and landing in a crouch. Standing up fast, her feet slipped on the wet concrete in her rush to reach the busy, openly lit street behind her apartment. If she could flag down a taxi before getting caught, she may make it to the airport in time to catch the last flight down to Miami.

* * *

**Saturday, June 15****th**** – 11:05am  
Veronica's Apartment  
Brooklyn, New York**

"Veronica, it's Logan! Open up!"

He knocked for a third time, the slight force of his knuckles against the door pushing it open a crack, the creaking noise ringing loud in the dark and dank hallway. Taking a step forward into the apartment, Logan stopped when a crunching sound came from beneath his shoe. Looking to see what he'd stood on, a vase lay broken, pieces of glass, flowers and water scattered across the floor in front of him. Cautiously, he peered into the room.

"Dammit, Veronica," he whispered, not bothering to close the door as he left the ransacked apartment.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.  
**A/N: **Thanks to **Ancholia** for the lovely review.

* * *

****Chapter Three:****

Sunday, June 16**th**** – 12:53pm  
O'Malley's Pub  
Brooklyn, New York**

Back pressed low against the wall, legs crossed at his ankles, and hands tapping to an imaginary beat against his thighs, Logan waited impatiently a few buildings down from O'Malleys. Not a moment too soon, Johnny emerged from the pub, a cigarette pressed tightly between his lips, his strides hasty along the concrete sidewalk. Hands moving to clench at his side, Logan followed closely behind the man, his shirt collar pulled up around his neck in a futile attempt to hide.

Taking advantage of the brief moment Johnny stopped to take out his lighter, Logan grabbed Johnny by the back of the neck and forced him into the dark alley next to a thrift store.

"What the—"

A sharp blow to Johnny's jaw cut his protest off, the force of the punch strong enough to bring him to his knees.

His reflexes fired up, Johnny rose to his feet and swung a fist into Logan's stomach. Caught off guard, a grunt escaped Logan's lips as he hunched over in pain.

Rising fast in order to gain control, Logan delivered a solid punch to Johnny's left cheek. Crouching low, loose stones embedded Johnny's palms as he fought to remain standing, hands scraping along the ground. Vision blurry, he tried straightening his back to face his unknown attacker.

Body tense, Logan flexed his knuckles, a faint shine of blood slowly appearing on his ripped skin. Without pause, he took a hold of Johnny's jacket collar, threw him hard and raised him high against the rough brick wall.

"Where the fuck is she?" Logan growled, his face contorted in anger.

With one forearm pressed against Johnny throat, making sure not to cut off his circulation, Logan brought his other arm back, bent at the elbow, ready to continue his assault.

"I don't- I don't know," Johnny rushed out.

His voice was too calm. Logan knew the man was lying through his teeth. Pulling his arm back further, Logan geared up to deliver another hit, his first threat obviously not intimidating enough.

Eyelids dipped low from exhaustion, Johnny's cheek had already begun to swell and blood trickled down his chin in a thin line. Flinching under Logan's constraints, Johnny brought his free arm up to protect his face.

"Okay, Okay!" he begged. "Just put me down and I'll tell ya."

Logan's hold loosened, but he didn't let go. He wasn't going to let the guy disappear that easily. As soon as he got answers, he'd let the man run free.

"I like you more when you can't really move. Now talk."

Logan watched as Johnny's face fell in resignation. It looked like he'd lost all ability to defend himself. The energy seeped out of Johnny's skin, feeding into Logan as he held the man firmly against the wall, showing no sign of wavering.

Glimpsing a gun inside the man's business jacket, Johnny figured his attacker was a Fed. He was sure he'd seen the guy around and he definitely wasn't one of Larkin's men. Larkin preferred brawn over brains, psychotic drop-kicks rather than hit-men. No honourable mob boss required the help of a professional.

Johnny relented without hesitation after seeing the gun. There was only one girl that would bring a man to attack him for information on her whereabouts. If the guy was a Fed, he could help Veronica in ways Johnny never could.

"She's in Miami, going after Larkin. She took off straight after I told her she was being followed."

Logan's eyes widened in shock. Her cover had been blown, and not long after he'd arrived in New York. His need to find Veronica suddenly became stronger with the possibility that he was to blame for her exposure.

Mind caught in a struggle to calm down, Logan stayed quiet as Johnny continued to speak.

"Shit, I tried to warn her. I don't know who she's gone with, but I haven't heard from her in days."

"You dumb shit! You let her go by herself? Why the fuck would you do that?"

The pressure on Johnny's neck increased for a second before Logan managed to control his anger. Cutting off Johnny's airway was not going to have any desirable effects.

"What the hell was I supposed to do? She told me to lay low and wait for a call. Promised to get me into police protection and all. No way was I gonna defy her."

Frustration barely kept at bay, Logan slowly spoke through gritted teeth. "Where _exactly_ did she go?"

"I swear I don't know," Johnny admitted in defeat.

Realising he wasn't going to get anymore information, Logan quickly pulled his arm away, making Johnny drop to his knees and grimace from the jolt of pain that shot through his legs.

Teeth grinding together, all his patience gone, Logan left Johnny with a final warning. "Get the fuck out of my sight, leave town, and grow some cojones while you're at it. I don't wanna see you anywhere _near_ Veronica ever again, you hear me?"

Johnny just nodded, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat with his head held low in shame.

"Keep her safe, will ya? I don't want anything bad happening to her."

"It's too late for that," Logan said in a hostile tone.

Wiping the blood off his knuckles onto his clean white shirt, Logan left Johnny to nurse his own injuries in the alley.

A good distance from the pub, Logan's cell phone began to vibrate in his back pocket. His fast strides slowed down as the sharp tone on the other end of the line ordered him back to the office immediately. A meeting had been called in light of new developments in the O'Malley case.****

* * *

DEA New York Field Division_  
30 minutes later..._

"Logan, nice of you to join us. Take a seat," Rodriquez ordered, without bothering to glance up, his attention focused on the notes in front of him.

Clearly Logan was the last to arrive, his superior officer sensing his late arrival into the room. Tentatively, he took the last seat available at the end of the long conference table.

With the exception of Rodriquez, the instant Logan had entered the conference room, all eyes turned to take in his ragged appearance. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, blood smeared across the front, and patches of broken skin covered his knuckles.

He'd done his best to get rid of the blood and bruises, using the bathroom in the Starbucks across the street before stepping foot in the building. There was only so much he could hide, only so much water and rough recycled paper could remove.

Slouched low in his seat, Logan saw a mix of emotions cross his boss's face. There was anger, suspicion, a little intrigue, but most obvious was the twitch of a smile. That meant only one thing, there had been a major development in the case.

Ignoring his fellow officers, Logan kept his eyes on the front of the room, ready to take in all Rodriquez had to say, doing his part until he could make the escape to the airport in time for the next flight to Miami.

"It has come to light that the DEA are not the only ones investigating the O'Malleys. Surveillance has established a mole amongst the crime family," Rodriquez began. A generic photo of Veronica appeared on the screen behind Rodriquez with her FBI code written below the words 'Special Agent'. "26 year old caucasian female, goes by the name Veronica Mars. After completing mandatory training, Ms Mars entered the academy as a rookie in 2010. An instant hit in the field, she was promoted to Special Agent January 2012, at the age of 24."

Logan let out a quiet groan and slouched as low as he could in his seat. The smile he'd seen on Rodriquez's face when he'd first arrived was a victory smirk. He'd figured out the connection between Logan and Veronica. Logan sensed he'd be restricted to mundane office work for months to come if Rodriquez had any say in the matter.

The new information Logan had received only an hour before could keep him out of the doghouse. His urgency to get out of the conference room and to the airport drove Logan to interrupt Rodriquez as he resumed Veronica's character profile.

"I know where she is and it's important to the case," Logan blurted, as he abruptly stood, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room.

"Care to indulge, Echolls?" Rodriquez questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Two days ago she caught a flight to Miami, Florida. If my memory serves me right, the only connection Larkin has to Florida is with Jacob Fisher, the CEO of Sandpiper Beverages. Sandpiper supplies the O'Malley's with some of the finest spirits in the country. Its a little suspicious for a dive-of-the-day pub to offer its customers fine-dining alcohol, don't ya think?"

Logan took a deep breath and pushed his hand through his hair before continuing. "Having discovered the connection, I believe Veronica came across some vital information in the form of a coded pocket book, took the risk of following Larkin, and has put herself in some serious danger."

Satisfied with the information, Rodriquez stopped Logan by holding up his hand.

"And what do you propose we do about it? Without substantial evidence, I can't just send a unit down there to investigate thin air. You get me something solid, and then we'll start discussing our options. I'll get a search warrant for you and Philips to investigate Sandpiper's New York warehouse."

Pointing his finger at Logan, Rodriquez continued. "I don't care what you did that has left you in such a mess, but don't you dare think about following her. You're on probation and the last thing I need is to explain to head office how I let a barely qualified agent defy orders and let his emotions compromise the entire operation. Get yourself cleaned up and meet me in my office in an hour. In the mean time, there's something you need to read."

Rodriquez held up the collection of notes he had used in the brief presentation and tucked them away into a file.

Holding off firing abuses and objections at the man standing at the head of the table, Logan diverted his eyes to the file in question, curious as to its content and relevance to Veronica and the case.

His boss could threaten him all he wanted. Nothing was stopping Logan from chasing after an errant Veronica. He was going to show Rodriquez where he could stick it and prove to those that matter just what he can do. Nothing stood between him and saving the girl who'd been such an integral part of his life for so many years.

After dropping the thick file in front of Logan and shooting him a sharp look, Rodriquez made a hasty retreat into the hall, speaking in a gruff tone to the silent room over his shoulder. "Meeting effectively over. Everyone get back to work."

The moment the room was clear of DEA personal, Logan grabbed the file, walked straight past his desk, took the elevator down to the street, and flagged down his fourth taxi of the day.

Formulating a plan as the taxi maneuvered through the busy Manhattan streets, Logan proceeded to call the one person he could depend upon, that he could rely on to get the job done, regardless of the consequences his actions may cause.****

* * *

Sunday, June 16**th**** – 6:40pm  
Miami, Florida**

Her mouth was dry and the taste of copper stuck to the back of her throat. The thin tank top and black shorts she wore stuck to her body in the stifling humid heat, the smell of sweat and dirt permeating the air.

She couldn't see; eyes covered by a thick, dark cloth. Coarse rope wound tight around her wrists, cutting into her skin as she feebly attempted to pull herself free. Sweat seeped into the open wounds, stinging, as blood fought its way past her injured wrists in an attempt to relieve her numb fingers.

Her ankles were tied to the legs of the chair and her arms were stretched taunt behind her back. Secured in place by a thick leather belt around her midriff, Veronica struggled to breathe as the binds put pressure on her ribs.

Concentrating on her wrists did nothing to alleviate the pain radiated from her jaw and head. Her whole body ached, but her face had taken the brunt of the attack as she'd struggled with her captor.

There was no telling how long she'd been tied to the chair; whether she'd been unconscious for more than twelve hours. Slipping in and out of consciousness, the faint show of light through the blindfold had been her only indication of time passing. By Veronica's calculations, she'd been restricted to the chair for two days, nothing more than a glass of water passing her lips.

Hunger pains tore at her. She hadn't eaten in three, maybe four days. Each breathe of air felt harsh against her sore throat as it travelled down to her lungs. Her vision blurred at the edges, unable to focus on a single object in the dark room.

Three days into her search for Larkin, Veronica had reached an abandoned warehouse a few blocks in from the Port of Miami. It was last on a long list of known locations associated with Larkin and Jacob Fisher, the building owned by a close associate of Fisher's. It'd been last on the list because Veronica had no desire to set foot in an abandoned building alone, no matter how much bravado she emanated.

Having walked across the tall overgrown grass, she'd only gone as far as to brush away the dirt and dust from a low window before her arm was forced up high behind her back, drawing a sharp cry from her in the unexpected attack. Given no chance to defend herself, the last things she remembered were a hard blow to the side of her head, and the sound of bone hitting solid wall. She was knocked out cold.

Veronica awoke hours later, dazzled and confused, a menacing voice whispering taunts in her ear. A high pitched ringing rang loud in her ear and warm blood ran a line down her neck. Slowly she regained consciousness, the man's deep words full of arrogance and disgust, and barely concealed hatred, pulling her out of her daze.

"Now look what we have here. She's just a little one, ain't she?"

A hand grabbed Veronica's hair near the scalp, forcing her head back, bringing her face to face with the taunter.

"Larkin, please," a quiet voice pleaded.

The nervous plee coming from the corner of the room was a female voice, a voice Veronica recognised immediately, and one who owed her the world. Right now she'd settle for her help in escaping.

"Shut up," Larkin gritted, head turned to face the woman, his impatience showing clear. "She's my business- I'll do whatever the fuck I want with her."

Veronica hadn't been gagged, which meant she was somewhere a good distance from civilisation, possibly the basement of the abandoned building she'd been staking out, or someplace with soundproof barriers to block out her cries for help.

Jaw locked tight, it's movement confined by the swelling, Veronica hadn't managed to uttered more than a weak whimper, her voice hoarse from lack of use and water.

As the numbness in her body spread, her attention refocused. Convinced she'd be able to appeal to the woman's soft side without the presence of Larkin, Veronica tried using her strongest weapon: annoying the fuck out of him until he left in frustration. Either it worked or Veronica would be committing a reserved version of suicide-by-cop.

"It almost sounded like you were trying to convince yourself there," Veronica snarked, her voice slowly gaining strength with every word. "I think you should take the lady's advice. Be a _real_ man and do as the woman says."

A harsh laugh, then a foot connecting with the seat between her legs, and the chair skidded across the floor, toppling backwards. The impact of Veronica's arms and back slamming hard against the concrete ground sent white hot pain through her torso to the tips of her toes, the sudden jolt torture to her body.

"You think you're so smart."

Her breaths short and loud, Veronica pushed further. "Smart enough to fool you for months and attract the attention of your impressionable nephew."

She heard a quick shuffle of feet before her chair was set upright and her jaw was clasped harshly between Larkin's thumb and fingers.

"You listen here, you little shit. You've caused me enough trouble as it is. There's no way I'm letting you go. You're lucky I have more important shit to deal with and I like to see the way your face scrunches up in pain with just the faintest movement."

His voice got lower, mouth only centimetres from her ear. "You're not going anywhere for a while, and when you do, it's not gonna be pretty."

Surprised by her own reaction, Veronica had let out a panicked whimper, Larkin's words hitting her hard.

A firm forcing of her head back and he was out of the room, barely a minute after she'd gained consciousness.

He'd left her alone for hours. The lone sound of trickling water driving her insane. She'd given up hope on a potential release by the lone female voice she knew to be Larkin's wife. Veronica had invested so much, given up just the same, only for the lady to leave her to her own devices. If it hadn't happened to Veronica most of her life, she'd have been offended, even disgusted by the weak portrayal. Now, all Veronica did was ignore those who abused her trust, hitting them back tenfold. Larkin's wife was going to pay for the hell she'd put her through.

She was alone in an unfamiliar city, tied up so tight only the slightest of movements brought her teeth down hard on her bottom lip. She had no weapon and her injuries were severe enough to keep her effectively immobile.

And so she sat, mind foggy and fragile, praying her plan had worked and help would arrive before her body shut down in defeat.****

* * *

Sunday, June 16**th**** – 2:02pm  
San Diego International Airport  
San Diego, California**

Cell phone glued to his ear and a duffel bag in hand, Keith Mars walked through the automatic doors and into the American Airline terminal. Escaping the smelting dry heat of Southern California, his steps were fast and solid as he marched straight for the check-in counter.

The phone at his ear failed to ring, going immediately to voicemail, signalling his daughter's phone was either out of range or turned off. It was the fifth time he'd called since leaving Neptune, and the 30th attempt he'd made at trying to contact her in the last two days.

Not once in the three years Veronica had lived away from home had he failed to get a response within twelve hours; if not a direct answer, a rushed call back to let him know she'd talk at a more convenient time.

Some would call his decision, to fly across the country when it had barely been 24 hours, drastic and insane, but Keith knew his daughter and he knew the trouble she had a habit of getting herself into.

He'd spent the entire morning calling the short list of friends and acquaintances Veronica had emailed just two months prior. Unsatisfied with just her home and cell numbers, Keith had pestered Veronica to send a more detailed list, going as far as to call in the middle of the night, disrupting her sleep in a moment of protective panic.

His connections in New York had turned out useless too. No one had seen his daughter in months. Her sudden disappearance off the radar caused Keith's concern to rise to the surface. Out of options, Keith had booked the first flight to the East Coast.

Volume set to the loudest setting, the generic sound of Keith's ring tone disrupted his thoughts.

Ignoring the 'Unknown Number' message that flashed across the screen, he answered the call.

"Veronica?"

"Mr Mars? It's Logan. Logan Echolls."

"Logan? Why are you-" Cutting himself short, Keith knew exactly why Logan was calling. In the years Logan and Veronica had dated, Logan only ever called when Veronica had put herself in a compromising or dangerous position. Something must have happened to his baby girl.

"What happened? Where is she?" he asked, stopping dead in his tracks and blocking the flow of foot traffic. Ignoring a _'hey, watch it old man' _and the disgruntled protests as people were forced to sidestep around him, Keith focused on the worried voice coming through his phone.

"She's in Maimi, but I don't fucking know where." Logan was struggling to keep it together. "All I know is she didn't check in for her return flight this morning, her apartment has been ransacked, and no one has heard from her in days."

"What? I don't- What is she doing in Miami? Logan, listen to me, I need you to start from the beginning."

As Keith strained to keep his attention focused on their conversation, Logan began explaining the O'Malley case. Obviously keeping what he revealed to a bare minimum, he spoke of a crime family with notorious violent tendencies, their large-scale drug trafficking ring, and the undercover operation Veronica had been conducting under the alias Samantha for four months now.

Keith had no idea his daughter had been working undercover, or even that she was involved in such a high level case. They didn't talk about her career anymore, not since he'd faced a week of the silent treatment after making an offhanded enquiry regarding her partner. He hadn't pushed the matter any further. They'd always found comfort in minimal information sharing. He knew she'd mastered the art of straight faced lies and avoiding confrontations years ago. Ignorance was sometimes bliss in their line of work.

"I-I don't understand. Why would the FBI send a lone agent along to investigate a known criminal? It doesn't make any sense."

"Keith, I'm sorry, but-"

Keith could hear the hesitancy in Logan's tone. "Just say it."

An audible sigh, a moments pause, a deep breath, and Logan finally spoke up.

"Back in December, Veronica was let go from the FBI on account of reckless endangerment and defying orders, only narrowly escaping prosecution. She's been working at a PI office in Brooklyn for almost six months."


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.**  
A/N:** I didn't realize I had anonymous reviewing disabled, so who knows if I'll get more reviews than 7? (ha). Sorry if you went to review months/years ago and couldn't. I'm also sorry for the 2+ years delay on this update. I've got no real excuse to give.

* * *

Chapter Four:

**Sunday June 16****th**** – 10:10pm  
Palmbrook Inn  
Miami, Florida**

Logan could sense the hesitantly slow steps beyond the motel room's front door. He took two long strides, and with a flick of his wrist and a hard pull, he threw the door wide open.

"About time," Logan muttered under his breath before commencing his pacing of the room, leaving Keith standing in the doorway with his arm raised, ready to knock.

"I'm sorry, Logan. My powers don't quite allow me to teleport across the country."

Keith's reply was void of emotion, an almost automatic response to Logan's impatience.

Keith took a moment to observe the young man wearing down the old, stained carpet beneath his feet. The carpet was a brown and orange color, with psychedelic patterns adorning every inch of space. The motel had clearly not been redecorated since the experimental 70s. Logan's features were tight, his brow fixed in a permanent 'v' shape. His shoulders were hunched, drawn in close to his chest, as if he were subconsciously shielding himself from an outside force.

"Logan."

The boy didn't stop.

"Logan!"

Finally, he stopped pacing and took a seat on the edge of the bed. His eyes remained trained on the hideous carpet.

"Logan, we won't get very far if you don't snap out of it and start talking." Keith's voice rose in volume and demand as he continued, "We can't help Veronica if you don't tell me what the hell is going on."

That got Keith the reaction he was after. Logan looked up, his attention heightened. The vacant stare gone in an instant.

"It's all my fault, Mr. Mars," Logan began, his voice low. "I waited far too long to go after her."

"Fuck!" The TV remote, the only solid object within reach, was now a scattered mess on the floor, having been thrown at full force against the wall directly in front of Logan.

Keith had learned from dealing with Veronica to be patient and calm, to allow the full story to be told before jumping to conclusions. It had proven to be a difficult task for both himself and his daughter, and tonight was going to be no exception. They didn't have time for a pity party.

"As much as I'd like an explanation as to how you and my daughter got involved in the same case, right now all I care about is getting her back safe and sound."

Keith sat down beside the distraught man, mimicking his pose.

"So tell me clearly and fast, who is Veronica investigating and how can I get my hands on the bastard?"

A spark of admiration flashed across Logan's face at Keith's obvious love for his daughter. He spoke of the Irish mob family and Larkin O'Malley's ruthless quest for riches, of how he first came across Veronica, slumped against a bar in a dungy pub in Brooklyn. He told of the lies, the shock, a line being crossed, and denial. He couldn't hold back. Couldn't hide what he knew about Veronica's situation. Keith would simply press him until he told all, and there was no time for a game of twenty questions.

Slowly, Keith's face lost it's hard edge and by the time Logan had finished sharing all the information he was privy to, the older man's expression matched what he'd seen on Logan's face as he'd entered the room.

"Oh, Veronica." Keith softly remarked to himself. "Do you have any idea where she could be?"

"Larkin was careful about covering his tracks. I don't know what Veronica found out that would bring her down here."

Interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone, Logan rushed to answer the call on the second ring.

"This better be good."

* * *

**Sunday June 16****th**** – 9:00pm  
Sampson & Co.  
Brooklyn, New York**

"Bridget!"

"What?"

"Where the hell is the McArthur file? I can't find it anywhere!"

Bridget sighed and walked to the doorway of her boss's office. Resting against the doorframe, she smirked down at the man shuffling through a pile of discarded files. As he looked up, she straightened her back and brought her arms down and into her pockets. An agitated Sampson was like dealing with an ungrateful child. No need to provoke him further by acting indifferent towards his needs.

"I didn't hire you to sit there and look pretty. While you do a marvelous job at it, these files are not gonna organize themselves. Think you could be of some use and check the stack by that giant metal container, where these folders should be in the first place?"

Sampson's tone was only mildly condescending. Bridget knew better than to take him seriously when he was in one of his moods. She swore the man went through the same hormonal cycle as any healthy woman.

"You just want an excuse to keep me in your office all the time," Bridget breezed over her shoulder as she made her way across the room. "If Veronica was here, maybe you'd have time to actually solve a case now and then. That girl has some crazy organizing skills."

A silence hung in the air at the mention of Veronica. They hadn't been in contact with her for a couple of days now. Up until the previous Wednesday, Veronica had phoned to fill Sampson in on any new develops in the case almost on a daily basis. While progress had been slow, there was always new intelligence to share or decisions to be made.

"What did Veronica say the last time you two spoke?" Bridget tentatively asked. "The last time I talked to her, she seemed pretty on edge about something."

The older man pushed himself to his feet and rubbed a hand across his hairless head in distress. Business had been tough since Veronica had taken the O'Malley case off his hands months ago. Had it not been paying the bills, and providing a little extra for equipment, he'd of pulled the case a long time ago and had Veronica back in the office. He had no complaints about the money the job had provided the business, only complaints about the struggle to prevent the agency from being buried in a sea of unsolved cases and disgruntled clients.

"Some vague metaphor about finding the chest and just needing the key to unlock it. She's not always so giving in the information department. I swear she thinks it's _her_ name on the sign outside."

Sick of looking and about to give up on his search, Sampson lifted a pile of folders off his desk to reveal an unopened, large envelope sitting underneath. The thick envelope had no return address, but the address for Sampson & Co. was typed out perfectly on a printed sticker, with a distinctive mark drawn on the side.

"Bridget…" Sampson drew out slowly in a strained voice, his back turned towards the girl. "When did this arrive?"

Bridget was in the middle of reading about the sordid affairs of a local public official when Sampson's cautious tone diverted her attention to the creased envelope clenched in his hand.

"I don't know," she rushed to explain, her eyes widening with slow understanding. "It must have arrived with the Saturday mail. I threw it on your desk after you ushered me out of the office because you had an important call to make."

Bridget stepped closer to get a good look at the personalized address sticker on the front. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Get the DEA on the phone. _Now_."

* * *

**Sunday June 16****th**** – 10:30pm  
DEA New York Field Division  
Manhattan, New York**

It had been just over an hour since Rodriquez had received a phone call from a Mr. Edward Sampson regarding the whereabouts of Larkin O'Malley and the elusive Veronica Mars. With no time to lose, two mufti squad cars were sent to retrieve a package obtained by the PI detailing the activities of Larkin and some of his most important henchmen. The new intelligence was put to test by some of the DEA's best analysts on the east coast.

It was now up to Rodriquez to utilize all of his resources to get Miss Mars to safely and Larkin arrested on American soil. With the Miami Police Department's Tactical Narcotics Team on stand-by, he made a call to the agent he trusted to lead the sting with fortitude and fearlessness, whose connection to the former female FBI agent should prove vital to the dismantling of the O'Malley mob.

* * *

**Sunday June 16****th**** – 10:30pm  
Palmbrook Inn  
Miami, Florida**

"This better be good."

"Echolls."

As Logan waited for Rodriquez to continue, Keith's cell phone rang from across the room. The timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

Keith didn't recognize the number on his screen. For the second time that night, he answered in hopes it was his daughter. "Veronica?"

"No, no. Is this Mr. Mars?"

To get some privacy and hone his attention in on the phone conversation, Keith moved into the small motel bathroom. "Who is this?"

"I'm Edward Sampson, I work with your daughter, Veronica. I have this number as an emergency contact and I have reason to believe Veronica may be in danger."

"What do you have? Do you know where she is?" Keith was thankful for the forward, cautious thinking of his daughter. It may just save her life.

"She's in Miami-"

"I know that much. I got a call from a family friend in the DEA and caught the first flight here."

Relieved that the fellow PI was already in the city, Sampson continued. "Thank God. You have to move now. I've called the DEA and they're taking action. Before she left, Veronica sent me a package containing selective pieces of information. That was only to happen as a last resort. From what I can gather, tonight Larkin and his accomplice, Jacob Fisher, will be taking in a shipment down at the port in Biscayne Bay. She included a list of factories she suspected serve as the holding facility. I just checked with the city police and a car registered under an alias she uses was found near an abandoned building on Marshalls Road just this morning. According to Veronica's notes, a business associate of Fisher's owns the building. The police reported that no further action was being taken on the car due to no evidence of foul behavior and regularity of vehicle abandonment in the area."

Sampson started ranting about the uselessness of cops and the suspicion that should arise in such a situation. Considering the circumstances, however, he realized it might have been in Veronica's best interest that uniform police stayed away from the building. Remembering why he'd been talking so fast in the first place, he cut himself short and returned to the point at hand.

"I bet the DEA has figured this out already, but I thought I'd give you the heads up. Bureaucracy will make them act slowly. I've read your book, Mr. Mars. Sometimes it takes people like you to get things done fast and efficiently."

"Are you _sure _that's where Veronica is?" Keith asked, excitement and trepidation clear in his voice.

Sampson took his time to answer. "No, but it's the best I've got."

After getting the specific details from Sampson and promising to buy the man a really expensive beer sometime, Keith made his way back into the main room. Logan was still on his cell, head bowed and his left arm and leg extended out in front himself, leaning against the door.

Keith could see the tension in Logan's shoulders and arms. It was his way of showing frustration without resorting to physical violence. Keith could tell he was holding back, putting on an act, trying to suppress what he truly wanted to say over the phone. If it worked in their favor, then Keith will let the man violate whatever protocol necessary.

When Keith looked up from sorting his equipment, Logan had finished his conversation and had also begun to gather his belongings.

Just as Keith was about to correspond what he'd heard from Sampson, Logan stopped moving, turned towards him, and simply stated, "My supervisor is flying down and has organized a unit full of DEA and TNT agents to investigate an abandoned building they believe could be where Larkin is holding Veronica. Rodriquez seems to think I'd have the patience to wait and command the unit once a strategy has been coordinated. The man has too much faith in me." A brief smirk flickered across Logan's face.

Logan handed Keith a black jacket, threw his pack over his shoulder, and without a second glance at the other man, walked out the door.

Once Keith's body and mind had caught up with Logan, he mentally put the matching pieces together. "I'm guessing the DEA got their information from Veronica's boss."

If Logan had heard Keith's comment, he showed no response. He kept walking towards his rental car, parked right outside the motel room's door.

Only when he'd reached the driver's side door did he stop to look straight at Keith and ask, "I'm not waiting for anyone. Are you coming with me or not?"

If anything, thirty years in and out of law enforcement taught Keith that going in guns blazing was never a good idea. Adrenaline did not always serve as protection, and when the outcome was disastrous, bravery translated into stupidity.

That didn't mean they couldn't just devise a plan on the way there.

"Lets go."

* * *

**Sunday, June 16****th**** – 10:40pm  
Abandoned Building  
Miami, Florida**

"What are you doing here?" Veronica muttered, as Sophia O'Malley slowly sauntered into the room. Sophia crouched down directly in front of Veronica and placing her hands on Veronica's knees.

Veronica made an effort to evade her touch and Sophia simply ignored her feeble motion. Sophia pulled down Veronica's blindfold, which had begun to creep below her eye level on it's own. Before Sophia had entered the room, Veronica's regained ability to see at least half of the room only served to remind her she was locked inside a pitch black, unforgiving, concrete box, with nowhere to run and the current cognitive strength of a fly.

"Listen, Veronica. I know you're not my number one fan right now, but there's not much time," Sophia rushed to say.

"I don't care what you have to say," Veronica managed to respond, pushing past the parched strip and layer of dried blood in her throat.

"Well tough, cause I know for a fact you're running on your reserves right now and there's nothing you can do but listen."

Sophia's counter was met with silence from Veronica. She could barely lift her head to look the woman in the eyes, never mind begin an argument over who _really_ deserved to be the one sitting in the chair, rapidly loosing blood and the ability to feel their limbs.

Mrs. O'Malley stood up and took a step back before letting Veronica know exactly why she had returned, after standing back and watching without a flinch as Larkin did his best to turn her potential savior into an incapacitated mess.

"You don't have much time. Larkin has left to do business, but he won't be gone long. Which means, Veronica, you don't have long to live. I've never seen him invest so much time and energy into a single human being before. He's _obsessed_."

There was a brief pause as Sophia pulled herself up, turned her back, and crossed her arms; She appeared to be trying to remove herself mentally from Veronica's predicament.

"I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand. If I had known you were so close to ending this I wouldn't have interfered. You _know _Larkin doesn't tell me anything! It took me 10 years to even start questioning his actions and even then I thought he was cheating on me. I didn't know until _yesterday_ that he was even in Florida. You should have seen his reaction when I showed up. I've never been so scared in my life. Thankfully he's been pretty preoccupied and hasn't given me even the slightest bit of attention."

Sophia was rambling. If Veronica didn't have much longer to live, she'd much rather spend that time in peace than spend it listening to her weak-willed client seriously believe that Larkin wouldn't take her life in a second. Larkin may not be a cheater, but he sure as hell cared more about his fortune than the love of his life, who was now a flight risk.

"Stop. Just, stop. I don't want to hear it. Do you really think he's going to spare your life, now that you know too?" Eyes and head drawn to the ceiling, Veronica managed to stop Mrs. O'Malley in her tracks.

She couldn't hold the position for long. The ache in her neck and the sensation of blood trickling down her throat brought her head back down with a cough.

"Either you help me get out of here or you leave. If you have even an ounce of humanity in you, it'll be the former option."

"I can't just walk out of here, dragging you along. There's no way you can stand on your own... I'm so sorry. He'll-"

"_Please_," Veronica pleaded, any pretense of dignity gone from her voice.

That's it. It's over. She had been reduced to begging. Not moments before, Veronica was ready to punch Larkin's wife dead in the face, now she was willing to trust her with her life. In her lifetime, there had only been a handful of people Veronica had trusted, and even then, that trust was either short-lived or highly dependable on good behavior and eye-for-an-eye tactics. To give this woman such a privilege meant all hope was lost.

Deep down Veronica knew there was no way they could successfully escape on their own. Although she hadn't seen them, months observing every strategic decision Larkin made told Veronica that there were at least two men stationed at the end of what she presumed was a hallway. They would be out of earshot to give privacy to whoever chose to visit the prisoner, but within shooting range if something went wrong. Even if they had a weapon on hand, which they didn't, they didn't stand a chance.

The room was suddenly cast into darkness. The door had been deliberately and swiftly closed. _Why was it open?_ Then she remembered. There were no lights in the room for when it got dark outside. Every time a person had come to play with the human punching bag at night, the door had remained slightly open to allow light from outside to ever so slightly brighten the room; never enough so that Veronica could identify her attacker, yet always enough to allow the silhouette to appear overbearing.

Sophia was no longer talking. Veronica strained to hear if anything was going on outside over the ringing in her ear, having taken a direct blow earlier in the day. _Or was it yesterday? _Her latest outburst and sudden flux of mental notes were taking their toll on Veronica's level of consciousness. It was now taking every last muscle in her body, and burst of energy she had, to keep what little power over her body she had.

Her control ended; her chin rested calmly on her chest and her eyelids fluttered shut.

Then suddenly the faint sound of high heels on concrete stood out.

The sound of garden shears being pulled open and shut.

The sound of rope hitting the ground.

The sudden rush of pain as blood returned to her hands and feet.

The returned sound of high heels on concrete.

A brief moment when light spread throughout the room.

Silence.

Darkness.

Then complete darkness, as Veronica's body could no longer withstand the renewed freedom. Her whole body made the trip sideways, her hip connecting with the ground first. All she could think about before loosing consciousness was the irony of the situation and how she didn't even have the strength to move her arms up to cushion the impact, as her face made direct contact with the solid ground.

* * *

**Sunday, June 16****th**** – 11:42pm  
Abandoned Building  
Miami, Florida**

He'd never been a fan of the all-black DEA combat uniform. From the cargo pants, to the sports cap and bulletproof vest, with DEA written in big yellow letters on the back. Logan had always hated wearing the outfit. It practically screamed, "Watch out! You're being busted!" There was no subtly in its approach. A DEA agent stood out like a diamond in a pile of coal on a sunny day.

He felt like less of a target as he slowly approached the building in the dark civilian clothes, gun firmly attached to his hand in his pocket, and Keith at his side.

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